Por Larry Bilello.

The rope softly sounds as you and I swing
across the chasm wide, the two legs of a compass
we cleave together, not daring to let go
as we rock in greater and greater arcs across the abyss,
I find in you a second mother, and you in me a brother
And as we languish in each other’s arms
our leaping rope runs slack.
And you and I alighting upon a ledge,
A Bare Knuckle on Sitting Bull’s fist,
I do not remember why we called it this,
perhaps you laughing sensed in it a nose,
red and rugged, for a tobacco chieftain.
And so we stand on our rocky crag
outcropped from the red cliff.

The next morning as we walked, mists rising,
feet plying the dew drenched loam, bending, pressing,
our momentary steps, prancing, advancing, underwater dancing,
our trail of toefoot imprints loses itself as we look back.
For the blades of grass, rising off bent knee,
shake their heads and
joyously their diamond dew drops sprinkle
on their clustered neighbors
tinkle, tinkle, tinkle
Ah, if only you and I and we could be so rich, and carefree!

The noonday sun beat upon our heads,
But you and I, not yet turned back by heat,
Walk forward, you lean upon my arm
as we squint at the heat that creates a mirage, and charms,
And we sit on a rock to rest your feet,
Thinking, water sprinkling, there is no fear ahead.
But why then in our hearts did their lurk a shade of dread?

We thought we could drink in the river
as we knelt in the sand of the valley,
But we fisted desert soil into each other’s mouths
and thought we were dulling the heartburn.


Larry Bilello (22)